


The grave's a fine and private place

by TaleWeaver



Series: But none, I think, do there embrace [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassin!Jon, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/M, Obsession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 22:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15301266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleWeaver/pseuds/TaleWeaver
Summary: After witnessing her boyfriend Joffrey’s murder, Sansa left behind everything she knew to escape crime lord Ramsay Bolton.  Unfortunately for Sansa, the Bolton’s have set the freelance assassin known as the Black Wolf on her trail.  Fortunately for Sansa, Jon Snow’s long hunt for her has evolved into a different sort of thirst.For the Dark!Jon weekend at jonsa-creative on tumblr.





	The grave's a fine and private place

**Castamere Cemetery**  
**Lannisport**

Sansa was breathing deep and hard as she dodged between the tombstones, her flat-heeled boots making no sound in the grass. She had to escape, no matter the cost; remaining unseen and unrecognised was essential to that.

She’d scouted the cemetery more than once on her daily run – one of the many precautions she’d taken, in case her protective facade was cracked, and she once again had to run for her life.  Ducking underneath the ground-length fronds of a weeping willow, she leaned against the thick trunk and listened hard for signs of pursuit as she tried to plan.

First, she had to remain uncaught and hidden long enough for the Dogs to get fed up, and leave. Second, she had to make her way to one of her caches for money and basics, and find shelter for the night. Third, she had to find a way out of Lannisport. Fourth, figure out how the seven hells they’d found her – would her Plan B false identity hold up? She’d put her first, best efforts into creating Alayne Stone. She’d had vague thoughts of going to Essos at some point, once she’d built up enough of a history that she could find a proper job - surely even Ramsey Bolton would be stopped by the Narrow Sea and international jurisdiction?

She could hear the men running and shouting – subtle, they were not. It was a good thing that all of Ramsey Bolton’s crew, those he called his Hunting Dogs, were men instead of actual canines. Real dogs would have tracked her scent by now.

But her position was still too exposed. Closing her eyes, she tried to track the sounds. She’d heard four distinct voices, but were there more who’d simply had the sense to keep quiet? She couldn’t hear any footsteps. She’d have to risk it.  Sansa slipped from the sheltering fronds of one tree to another, then another, heading for one of the old mausoleums. The family it sheltered had died off decades ago, with no one to notice her discreet maintenance on the door hinges and handle. Not to mention jamming the lock and adding a bolt to the inside. Why she’d put so much effort into it, she still wasn’t sure, other than her intuition told her it might be worth it.

Sansa shifted her hood firmly into place, took a deep breath, and then slowly exhaled. She was just another mourner in a hooded dark grey coat; no one watching her would think she was scared at all. No one seeing her would think she was being pursued. She was simply a distant cousin to the Sarsfields, curious about her ancestry.

Sansa strolled to the small stone building. The stone shield above the door had had the motto worn away by time and weather, the only detail remaining was the diagonal arrow, pointing northwest. She slipped inside calmly, then shot the bolt. Anyone testing the door would simply think it was locked, so she couldn’t be in there.

Heading for a shadowed corner, she huddled on the floor in a ball with her coat covering as much of her as she could manage and the hood over her head, trying to be as small as possible.

She could hear the hunting party approaching.

Biting her lip until it bled, Sansa hoped, for the millionth time, that Joffrey Lannister-Baratheon was burning in all Seven Hells. She’d certainly prayed for it enough, to both the old gods of her childhood and the Seven. She’d cursed herself for dating him almost as many times. If she’d had the guts to break up with him, Joffrey wouldn’t have insisted on dragging her along to his mysterious business meeting, to impress the other party by showing her off as his trophy. She wouldn’t have witnessed Joffrey being shot three times in the chest by the man with eyes like ice and a grin full of perverse delight. Who then laughed and shot him another three times. She wouldn’t have ended up in police protection for all of a single night, before the man who she’d been told was Ramsey Bolton came to kill her. She wouldn’t have given up everything – her friends, her career, her family, even **her own name** \- to hide from him.

Sometimes Alayne thought she’d give up the rest of her life for one more week at Winterfell.

Eventually, the shouting and other sounds died down outside, and Sansa felt safe enough to uncurl and stand up. She slowly stretched out her limbs, loosening the tight muscles and wincing as the pins and needles faded. She turned towards the door, wondering if it was safe to leave yet.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the shadows on the wall move. It took all she had to bite back her scream, and that was enough time for the shadow to push her against the wall with a hand over her mouth.

"Screaming would be a very bad idea," the shadow informed her. “The morons are still looking for you.”

Sansa nodded.

To her vague astonishment, the shadow wore a coat much like hers. No belt or shiny buttons to stand out. Charcoal, because it blended better than black. A deep hood to hide the face and knee length to cover most of the body without being so long it was easy to get tangled in. A hand, gloved in thin black leather, swept away the hood to reveal a man’s face. He was pale, even in the gloom, with black hair pulled back from his face and Sansa was startled by how handsome he was. Maybe a few years older than her –

\- And then Sansa looked into his eyes.

No. Whatever the number of his years alive, this man was far older than her. And he was just as dangerous as he was handsome.

"You're here to kill me," Sansa whispered in despair.

"I’m certainly not going to turn you over to Ramsey Bolton alive." Then he cupped her cheek in his hand, his touch impersonal and tender. Amazingly, Sansa felt her pounding heart start to slow, and a gentle warmth started to spread from where he touched her skin. “I wouldn’t turn anyone over to that bastard alive. Not to mention you’ve made both him and his father angry, by how well you’ve done at eluding them. You’re far cleverer than any of them expected.”

But not him, Sansa realized. This man had found her because he had **expected** her to be clever. Was it twisted to feel sort of flattered by that?

“You worked out how to fake a new identity all on your own, and moved from one territory to another to do it. How did you get from King’s Landing to the Vale, if you don’t mind me asking? It’s the only part of your journey I couldn’t track.”

“Stowed away on a cruise ship. It felt like the first piece of luck I’d had since the whole thing started – it was the only one I’d been on before, so I knew the layout. I snuck into the staff laundry and stole a couple of uniforms. I only needed to keep anyone from realising I wasn’t meant to be there for three days until I reached Gulltown. I’m the only Stark cousin who Robin likes, so I could guess his password and get Lord-level access to the Vale government computer system. I picked a name and birthdate from Gulltown’s oldest cemetery, and with Robin’s login details I created an appropriate birth record so I could get all the ID I needed.”

“And you thought anyone looking for you would look for fake records, or records from the North or King’s Landing. No one would search in actual, legitimate records from the Vale of all places. Cersei Lannister’s temper is well known, and she hasn’t been shy about blaming you in the media for Joffrey’s demise, even when the police made it clear you were a witness, not a suspect. The idea of you running to the Westerlands, into the lion’s den? Crazy enough to work.”

Sansa nodded. “Cersei doesn’t notice the little people. I could have poured her wine and she wouldn’t have realised it was me, as long as I wore a waitress uniform. Tywin wouldn’t leave King’s Landing, Jaime wouldn’t leave Cersei or the younger two children, and Tyrion is so recognisable he’s easy to avoid."

Why was she so calm? Why wasn't she trying to negotiate, trying to fight? Had she spent so long afraid of dying, that her fear had simply worn into resignation? Or was it the warmth flowing through her from the shadow man's touch?

"I really thought that combination would throw everyone, both criminal and law enforcement, off my track. How did you find me?” she asked curiously.

“I had your design sketchbook. I thought someone with your creative talent would need to express it somehow, so I did a periodic search for similar images, and eventually found the website for a local theatre group.”

Sansa sighed in resignation. “The costumes for _Aemon and Naerys_. Is that how the Bolton’s found me?”

The shadow man scoffed. “No. For them, it was sheer luck. One of Joffrey’s idiot friends loved the naked photos Joffrey flashed around-”

“He did **what**?” Sansa seethed. “Oooh, Joffrey’s lucky he’s already dead!”

The shadow man smirked in approval of her response. “He had them on his phone. Not even he was stupid enough to put them online, after Robert Baratheon’s sex-tape scandal. But I’m guessing the idiot friend stole Joffrey’s phone and forwarded the photos to himself. He did an image search, and stumbled across you in the background of someone else’s selfie. I’m guessing he told Jaime Lannister, because he’s the one who reported it to the police like a good citizen. Roose Bolton’s man on the inside intercepted it, and reported it to him.

"You've made a very good effort on your own, but I can make you vanish so thoroughly Ramsey will never find you. I'll protect you."

"No one can protect me," Sansa murmured bitterly. "No one can protect anyone."

His hard brown eyes softened, just a little, and a new light began to burn in their depths. "I can. I will. But from now on, you're **mine**. Do you understand?"

His?

His to fuck, Sansa realised. His to... possess. He wanted her as his mistress. He wanted her as his whore.

She waited for the fear to increase. She waited for the disgust to hit.

But it didn't.

Had the long months of being Alayne ground all of Sansa's honour and morals into dust? Or had they been burned as fuel in her mission to survive, come what may?

This stranger, standing in front of her, asked her to trust him. To trade her body for his protection.

Sansa closed her eyes, and breathed, deep and slow. Reaching deep inside herself to wake her intuition, that inner prompting. The prompting that she'd ignored, far too long, when it told her to break up with Joffrey. The prompting that had made her empty out her safe, full of the gems Joffrey had fastened to her to make him look good, when the police gave her ten minutes to pack. The prompting that had sent her running to Lannisport, instead of to the North, and had even suggested she dye her hair dark instead of blonde.

She sighed in acknowledgement, and opened her eyes.

"I won't be your slave," she informed him.

"I don't want a slave," he replied.  He leaned forward, as if he meant to kiss her, and Sansa pressed her hand to his chest. She felt his heart leap under her hand, even through the fabric of his dress shirt, then settle into a slow, insistent beat.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

A wolfish grin made his teeth flash in the dim. “Jon. My name is Jon.”

*** 

He took her for the first time then and there, in the tomb. But by the time he sighed her name into the skin of her throat, Sansa was no longer trading her body for his protection. Before he impaled her with his cock, long before he filled her with a hot gush of seed. By the time her first climax hit, Sansa was simply having sex with a man she wanted badly.

When they stepped out of the tomb into the golden afternoon, Sansa felt more content and secure than she had since before the night Joffrey died - and she was already hoping he'd want to have her again that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Series and fic titles from 'To his coy mistress' by Andrew Marvell
> 
> I'm not sure just how Dark this Dark!Jon is, given it's Sansa's POV and she doesn't know just how dark he is at this point. *scratches head* Thing is, the prequel from Jon's POV is being saved for jonsa-smut's summer 2018 round, which I couldn't use this for because of the dubious consent. Hope it works anyway.


End file.
